Bodies in Bedlam (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  My eardrum bent inward as Mace yelled he'd tear me limb from limb. I waited till the noise subsided a little and said, "I don't give a damn if she wears a false bottom; I just want to clear something up. Now will you calm down a minute? This might be important."

  He fumed a minute longer, then said, "O.K., chump. What's your trouble?"

  "You know it isn't anything but Wandra's face in the painting. Right?"

  "All right. So what?"

  "And I'll bet you know who's the model for the rest of the painting. Also right?"

  "You're damn right I know. That murdering, blackmailing little Hallie Wilson. Hell, I saw her posing for it. That little—"

  I cut him off. "Stop guessing. I haven't got all night. Does Wandra know who the gal was?"

  "Not from me she doesn't. No sense my telling her. Wouldn't help any if she knew what angle I was workng on. Besides, what she doesn't know won't hurt her. I'm pretty sure she doesn't know anything except it's not her. What's that got to do with it?"

  "Maybe nothing. But Brane was trying to blackmail Wandra with the painting, wasn't he?"

  He spoke slowly, heavily. "I don't see that's a bit of your business, Scott."

  "For Christ's sake, just tell me yes or no, Mace, and maybe I'll tell you where your boys are."

  "My what?"

  "Dutch and Flem. Your boys."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "They won't be home, Mace. Now, how about a yes or no answer? I've got my ideas anyway; I just want to be sure."

  He didn't answer for a minute. Then he said, "So maybe Brane was trying a squeeze. Maybe. What of it? And what's this about Dutch and Flem?"

  "They started out to kill me. Maybe you didn't know about that; maybe you did. But they're up at the side of the road on Benedict Canyon Drive. Between four and five miles up the grade."

  "They're what?"

  "At least they were there. I don't know about now."

  "What?"

  I said, "I had to clobber them with their car. I don't know what kind of shape they're in, but I hope to Christ they're dead."

  He sounded more than mildly surprised. "You what?"

  "I had to hit them with a car."

  "What? Scott? With a what?"

  I hung up, not gently, in his ear.

  I went back and creaked into the car and felt lousy. I hadn't got as much kick out of bothering Mace as I thought I would. Usually on a case I've got an idea where I'm going, but this was a cockeyed business. I had leads, sure, and I had some ideas, but I could have been headed up or down or sideways. A lot of the stuff I'd picked up blundering around pointed right at some big, fat answers, I felt pretty sure. But ask me what they were and I'd give you a blank stare. And I didn't feel happy about it. The answers were trying to get through the muscle in my head, but they couldn't quite make it. What I needed was a good rest and about ten hours' sleep. But somehow I had the feeling time was running out. If I was going to get the right answers it would have to be soon. Maybe my subconscious was trying to keep me alive; maybe it was trying to warn me that something was wrong. But whatever it was doing, it was kicking up a hell of a storm. It gave me a creepy feeling like infant mice playing tag on my spine.

  I drained the last of the beer and tossed the bottle behind the seat. Then I picked up the paper and ogled it again. It hadn't changed.

  Wandra Price. What did I know about her? Sweet on a racket boy. New Magna star. Actually one of the newest, with her first movie just out. She'd been around the picture city no more than a year. And here she was on the cover of a Los Angeles newspaper. Her head, anyway, on a borrowed body. I had a sort of funny thought right then. Wandra was in a screwy spot. If she denied that was her body in the painting, how the hell would she prove it? And if she did prove it, she'd have to do it with a body that wasn't half as nice or a fourth as sexy as the one everybody now thought was hers. I could see imaginary headlines: "Potato Pancakes Prove Price Painting Phony!"

  Oh, she could put out the blaze the newspapers had built under her. But you might say Wandra Price was between the frying pan and the fire.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I OGLED THE FACE of Wandra and the body of Hallie on the front page for a while, chuckling a little, but half-heartedly.

  Then I went over everything from the time the messy business had started: Roger Brane, alive and sarcastic, swaggering up to Irv Seeley, Paul Clark, and me at the party; Hallie running from Mace and his boys; me running around asking questions and roaming over the Magna lot; Connie, Barbara, people shooting at me and pounding on me; stars getting jittery and flipping on the sets; and all the rest. I followed a path of blackmail, breasts, and blood clear up to here and now and my musings about Wandra Price and Garvey Mace and his thugs.

  And then I lit another cigarette, slowly, while I wondered if, by God, I didn't have something.

  I dragged deep on the weed and started getting a little excited. I tried to punch holes in it and they wouldn't punch. I didn't know who yet, but I was getting an idea how. And a little of the why. I forced myself to sit quietly for another minute while my brain clicked along like a well-oiled machine for a change, and I started feeling better. There was plenty I didn't know yet, that was for sure, but I was starting to get the hang of the thing. And one big, fat angle that had been slapping at my nose all along finally got in front of my eyes.

  I mashed out my cigarette and started my stolen Buick, made a U-turn, and tromped on the gas.

  Constanza Carmocha slept in what has been called, sometimes quite accurately, the raw. I found that out when she answered the door, peeped around it, then spied me and threw the door wide.

  "Hey, popsie," she squealed. "Ain't you the nuts? Am I glad to see you!"

  "You'll catch cold," I croaked.

  "Keep me warm, Shell boy."

  "Thank you, no."

  Then she caught sight of the mangled condition of my face and clothes and let out a squawk of alarm. I spent a minute convincing her all was well, then, when she was back to normal, said, "I need a favor, Connie."

  She giggled and jiggled. Finally she stopped vibrating and said, "You came to the right place."

  "The picture," I said hoarsely. "The picture."

  "What picture?"

  "The picture. Of you. I want it. I won't let it get away from me, Connie."

  She frowned. "What's it got that I don't got?" she asked me. "You hurt?"

  "No, no. I'd like to borrow the picture. O.K.? I won't let anybody else get hold of it."

  She shook her head, perplexed. "O.K., but you must be nuts. Come on in." She turned around and walked away like she had on a Mother Hubbard.

  I said, "No. No, thanks. I'll wait."

  I waited, perspiring in the cool night air, till Connie came back with the eight-by-ten. I took the picture, got her hands off me, and stepped back a yard. She was still close.

  I said, "One more favor. Call Barbara Faun again. I'm going by her place."

  She eyed me narrowly. "She got a picture?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "You starting a private collection?"

  "No. Not at all. I'm sleuthing."

  "Sleuthing," she said. "Ha!"

  "Yes, ha-ha. O.K.?"

  She breathed deeply. "O.K. You're crazy as hell, but O.K." She slammed the door in my face.

  Barbara Faun didn't come out when I rang. She peeked out as Connie had and whispered, "Mr. Scott?"

  "Yes. Connie call you?"

  "Yes."

  Silence.

  This was embarrassing. I cleared my throat softly and asked, "She say anything about a picture? You told me Brane. . . blackmail. . . you said. . . "

  "You want it?"

  "Yes, Miss Faun. If you don't mind too much. I'm—it's sort of a lead. I may be able to help."

  "Oh, dear," she sighed. "Oh, dear." Then she slipped a picture the size of Connie's out the crack in the door, handed it to me, and shut the door quietly.

  I took a quick gander at the photo and imagin
ed Barbara Faun inside, blushing. I felt lousy. I felt like a cad. But I was cooking.

  I drove quickly to Berendo and Hallie's house, and went inside, turning on the lights. The shot of Hallie was on the floor by the door where I'd tossed it before tackling Dutch and Flem. I had me three pretty pictures and I looked them over good, settled in an easy chair in the front room.

  I stared at the eight-by-ten enlargements for a while, then burned them and flushed the ashes down the basin. I didn't want to take any chances on those explosive shots getting away from me on my future travels, this evening. I didn't think the girls really wanted the things, and it was a hell of a lot better to burn them than to have somebody lift them off me. Besides, in a pinch I could always claim spontaneous combustion.

  I went out to the Buick, got in, and headed downtown, having a brainstorm all the way. When I got to a phone booth, I pulled over to the curb, got out a dime, and dialed the number of the Spartan Apartment Hotel. I was anxious to hear Hallie Wilson's soft, pleasant voice again.

  The phone buzzed and Brown, on the desk at night, answered in a bored tone.

  "Put me through to my room. This is Shell Scott."

  "Sure enough. You hiding something up there in your room?" His voice was dripping with suggestion.

  "Yeah," I said. "A harem. Mixed nationalities."

  He didn't say any more, just plugged into my rooms. The phone buzzed, and buzzed some more. What the hell was that gal doing? Taking a bath?

  Finally I got a little nervous and jiggled the hook. I got Brown and asked him, "You ringing the right room, chum? Nobody answers."

  "Room two-twelve. That's your apartment, isn't it?" His voice was cool.

  "Yeah. Try again."

  He did try again, and I listened, straining my ears for the sound of the receiver being raised, but there wasn't any answer.

  I got Brown again and asked him, "Do me a favor? How about running up to my room and seeing if anybody's there?"

  He laughed, pleased. He was unhappily married and he loved to see other guys in trouble with women. He said, "Did your harem stand you up?"

  "Cut the gab," I said sharply, "and get the hell up there. There's five bucks in it for you, but make it snappy. You got a key."

  He was gone for a few minutes, then I heard his voice saying, "Nobody there. Place is clean empty."

  "You sure?"

  "Course I'm sure. I looked all over the joint. Even in the bathroom."

  "O.K. Thanks, Brown. The five's yours."

  I hung up feeling a little empty and fluttery inside my stomach. I'd told Hallie to go to my apartment I was sure of that. But maybe she'd misunderstood me. The thought jabbed at my brain that maybe she'd really taken a powder this time, flown the coop for good, but that didn't make any sense at all and I shoved it out of my mind. Could be, I figured, that she thought I meant the office. The office keys were on the ring I'd given her.

  I put another dime in the slot and dialed my office phone. I didn't really expect an answer there, but my spirits got lower and lower, sinking deeper each time the phone buzzed. I listened to the dismal, lonely sounds in my ear for almost a minute before I hung up the phone.

  There was another chance—the Georgian Hotel. She could have gone back there. But after I'd checked with the clerk on duty and asked for not only Amelia Banner but Hallie Wilson and anyone answering her description, it sank in that Hallie was nowhere around, and I didn't know where to find her.

  Maybe it didn't mean anything. I kept telling myself that, but somehow it wouldn't quite go down.

  I dialed Homicide in L.A. I didn't expect Samson to be on at this hour, but at least I might check with someone there and find out if they had anything that might tie in with my mental gymnastics of an hour or so ago regarding the case of Roger Brane.

  Maybe Hallie had even gone down there to police headquarters. Maybe she'd gone for help. Maybe.

  I got through to Homicide and I recognized Samson's voice right away. This was the time of night when he was usually home in bed, but I didn't think anything about it.

  "Hello, Sam," I said. "Shell on this end."

  "Shell!" His voice was an explosion in my ear. "Sweet Christ, man. I thought you might be dead."

  I chuckled a little. "So did I, Sam. I guess I'm just too stupid to die. You know, only the brave and the fair and the young—"

  "Where the hell are you?"

  "Out on Santa Monica Boulevard at a pay booth. Thought I'd check and see—"

  He cut in again, his voice worried still. "You all right?"

  "Yeah, I'm all right Thanks for the concern, Sam. Say, I guess it was a kind of dirty trick calling Mace about his two goons instead of reporting it downtown. I was a little wacky in the head. Besides, it was a kind of personal thing between me and Mace. I thought he sent his boys after me."

  "What boys? What are you talking about?"

  I got the first little twinge of fear then, but it didn't get all the way through, didn't throw me. I said, "I thought you knew. Why'd you think I'd be messed up?"

  "You go around and get bullet holes in your car and you wonder?"

  "Oh, that. It was this afternoon, Sam. Seems like a year ago now. Somebody took a shot at me out on Loma Vista Drive. Got away, though."

  "You been walking around bleeding all this time?"

  It walked right up and hit me then. It slammed into my mind all of a sudden and I couldn't say anything for a minute. My hand holding the receiver started to shake, and my stomach twitched and got cold.

  "Sam," I said hoarsely. "Sam. What you talking about? What you mean, bleeding? How'd you know about the bullet hole in my car?"

  "Not hole. Holes. Three of 'em. What's the matter?"

  "Sam. Damn it. Tell me."

  "Well, hell. We got your car, Shell. Three holes in the windshield and blood all over the seat."

  Chapter Twenty

  I WOULDN'T let myself believe it. Hallie. Sweet, luscious, out-of-this-world Hallie. It just couldn't be like that. I thought of her perfect lips and the tiny waist, the swelling breasts and hips, the beautiful long legs. And I thought of her blinking those long-lashed, violent violet eyes at me.

  "How is she, Sam? Where is she?" I almost shouted at him.

  "Where's who?"

  "Hallie. Hallie Wilson. The girl."

  "Who the hell is Hallie Wilson?"

  "Sam. Don't you get it? She was in my car. That—that must be her blood. I gave her the car. She was in it."

  Sam didn't say anything for a minute, then he growled softly, "Well, sweet Christ!"

  I asked him, "Where is she? Don't you know?"

  "No, Shell. You calm down. The car was empty. I thought it must have been you. No sign of anybody."

  "The car. When'd you find it?"

  "Just a little while back, a few minutes. I've had half the force looking for you. For you, Shell. Not some woman. I thought you were hurt."

  "Thanks, Sam." I imagine the guy had been worried. I knew I'd have been sick if it had been him. I was sick the way it was. I asked him, "Where was the car?"

  "Out at your place. On North Rossmore. Wasn't parked very good and it was a little short of the apartments. Thought you must have stopped in a hurry. A Hollywood uniform car saw the way it was parked and checked it, then we got the report. Guess no one noticed the shots themselves."

  I cursed myself silently for letting Hallie drive my car to my apartment in the first place. If I'd had any sense I wouldn't have let her, particularly after I'd been shot at earlier in the day myself.

  But at least nobody had been in the Cad. Or anyplace around it. If Hallie had been killed she'd surely have been in the car. That's what I told myself. Maybe she was O.K., alive at least.

  But if she was injured or dead, it was a mistake. It was supposed to have been me in that bright yellow Cadillac of mine. I sure had me a lot of score to settle with someone, and I was aching to try.

  "Sam," I said, "I'll be right down."

  I didn't get much more at
Headquarters after Samson got over the shock my battered appearance gave him. But I could see Sam had been worried. In the big glass ashtray on his paper-littered desk there were two well-chewed cigars. One had been smoked only an inch or so down; the other hadn't been smoked at all, just mangled.

  He was mangling another long black cigar between his teeth now. He said, "The Hollywood boys took it, but the word came in here, naturally. I was a little worried." He tried on a grin. "Hell, I might want a divorce myself sometime."

  He was trying to get a rise out of me, but I felt too damn low thinking about Hallie, I said, "Wasn't there anything? Any way you could find out what happened to her?"

  He scratched his iron-gray hair. "Don't get excited. Remember, we haven't had much time yet. There wasn't anything, but lots of things could have happened. If she was just hurt—you know, not bad hurt—maybe she got to a hospital. We're already checking that angle, and the taxi companies—all the rest. See, Shell, we weren't looking for her before; we were trying to find you. Probably something'll turn up before long."

  I told him sure, with more confidence than I felt.

  Suddenly Samson said, "Shell, you sure that would be this Hallie's blood? I mean, you sure she actually got herself shot at?"

  I frowned at him. "What else? What you getting at?"

  "Just asking. You seem pretty interested in her."

  "Sure I'm interested. What's that on the car seat?"

  He dug teeth into his cigar and his big jaw wiggled, but he didn't answer.

  I got up. "Guess I'll run, Sam. Looks like a long night. You'll keep checking?"

  "Sure thing, Shell. You know it."

  I shook his hard hand and left. I was worried sick about Hallie, but I wouldn't be much good running around looking under beds. The police would cover all the angles and I had my own work to do—maybe killing two birds with one stone. Or one bullet.

  There was still a scared killer running around loose.

  It took a hell of a time, but I finally got Feldspen, himself, on the other end of the phone. I explained what I wanted and he blew his top. He was still saying no when I broke in.